


The Boy and the God

by ashurbadaktu



Category: Angel: the Series, Wicked Years Series - Gregory Maguire
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:24:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashurbadaktu/pseuds/ashurbadaktu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drabbly piece I wrote ages ago by request.  </p><p>Illyria and Liir end up in the same place.  This is what happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy and the God

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed. I... don't even know.

Neither of them were expecting this.

The awkward, gawky boy with too-long arms and too-long legs and green green too green eyes. He'd ended up in this strange between place an empty and broken soul, something missing or perhaps never there.

The stilted, stalking god had only confused him. Her color had almost been comforting, dots of blue across her pale face almost diamonds, almost sparkling in the darkness. He'd snapped at her, told her to leave him be, stop asking questions of him over his broom, the cigarettes he clung to like a lifeline--

The way the dragons had reacted to him, like they were kin

\--and she'd thrown him across the room.

"Stupid bitch," he'd called her, rubbing at a split lip.

"Useless child," she'd called him, walking away.

 

She'd almost killed him when he called her Fred.

He's looked down at her, at the hand around his throat as his back ached and his head throbbed and he'd barely been able to breath let alone answer the ice-harsh questions that flew out of her like peppershot from a musket.

"She loved it when she was alive," was all he'd told her, the words soft.

"I don't care," she'd told him, dropping him.

 

She'd stared at him when he'd brought her breakfast.

"What is it?"

"Coddled eggs," he'd said. Then he'd looked at her as if everyone knew what coddled eggs were, as if they were as common as the birds in the air or the fish in the sea. He'd looked at her as if she were simple.

"I don't want them. I do not require them."

"She didn't either," he'd said and started in on them in front of her. 

She took the second one. She didn't know why.

 

"You're not human."

He'd looked at her.

"I didn't think so. I'm too odd. But neither are you."

"No."

"And you never were."

"No."

"Good."

"Good?"

He'd looked at her and offered a soft, powdered-sugar treat. She'd stared at him, unable to understand. Then he moved to pull it back, but she snatched up one of the cubes and examined it for a moment.

"Good," and he'd tipped his chin to the cube before taking the last piece for himself.

 

"I could take your body when you do that," she'd told him as he shivered back into his skin. The rough bark, the hard earth, and a root that'd caused a bruise on his left buttock all came into focus along with her words.

"You could. But you wouldn't."

"No."

"Why?"

And she'd looked at him for a moment before lifting her chin and walking off.

"Good," he'd said quietly.

 

"There's nothing to see," she'd said as she looked up into the curls of nutty smoke.

"There's plenty to see," he'd told her as one finger fluttered between the loops and the holes and the lines of the smoke through the air.

"It is smoke."

He'd looked sideways at her.

"What is anything to something like you?"

 

When he'd woken up screaming, she'd stayed away as the others tried to wake him. His body writhed and he wouldn't stop, couldn't stop; his pillow was flecked with deep orange spots of blood and phlegm. Some of them had tried to hold him down. Someone else had slapped him.

She walked over and touched his shoulder. His eyes rolled open, focused and green and deeply deeply sad.

"At least I've always been nothing," he'd croaked out, barely able to speak.

She'd stepped away, but only so far as to stand near the door to his room.

 

"You could be great and powerful."

"So could you."

 

"The past isn't for regrets."

"No?" she'd asked him. "It seems as if that is all you humans seem to do."

"Just because we do it doesn't mean it's right." He'd taken a cue from her expression. "It could be said about a lot of things."

"What is the past for then? In your... opinion?"

"It's what we are. As much as strong arms or keen eyes. Or the power of a god."

"That is what was."

"It's also what is, depending on what you see as the power of a god."

"And what is the power of a god?"

"To make a mortal believe that Someone can change the world."


End file.
